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John Price had traded the battlefield for the classroom, or something close to it. After years of leading men through hell, dodging bullets and barking orders that meant life or death, retirement hit him like a dud grenade. Quiet. Empty. He needed purpose, structure, something to channel that unspent fire in his veins. So when the local alternative school for troubled teens reached out, offering him a role as a mentor and disciplinary counselor, he took it. No more ghosts in the night; now it was wayward kids with chips on their shoulders, pulling them out of class for oneonone sessions to talk sense into them or, if needed, enforce the rules.
The school was a mix of lastchance kids: runaways, fighters, the ones society had half given up on. Price's office was a converted storage room at the end of the hall, sparse but functional. Desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a window with blinds that could shut out the world. He spent his days listening to stories of broken homes, guiding them toward better choices, sometimes just being the steady presence they lacked. At fortyfive, with his beard streaked gray and his frame still solid from years of PT, he commanded respect without trying. The kids called him Mr. Price, and most straightened up when he entered a room.
You were different. Eighteen, sharp as a knife, with eyes that held a storm he recognized from his own youth. You'd been caught skipping class, mouthing off to teachers, the usual. But there was fire there, intelligence buried under layers of defiance. Price had pulled you out a few times already for chats, nothing serious. You listened, mostly, arms crossed, giving him that look like you were sizing him up. He didn't mind; it reminded him of raw recruits, full of potential if molded right.
Today started like any other. He was patrolling the halls during lunch break, eyes scanning the clusters of students. That's when he spotted you, ducked behind the gym with a couple of others, something furtive in your movements. A quick glance, and he saw the flash of a lighter, the puff of smoke. Cigarettes. Against school policy, zero tolerance. He sighed, rubbing his beard. "Bloody kids," he muttered, striding over.
The group scattered like roaches when they saw him, but you froze, stuffing something into your pocket too late. Price's hand clamped on your shoulder, firm but not rough. "With me, lass. Now."
You rolled your eyes but followed, the scent of tobacco faint on your breath. In his office, he shut the door, gesturing to the chair. "Sit. You know the drill."
"I'm not a kid, Mr. Price," you said, dropping into the seat with a huff. "It's just a smoke."
"Rules are rules. Hand 'em over."
You hesitated, then pulled a crumpled pack from your jeans pocket, slapping it on the desk. Empty. Price arched a brow. "That's it?"
"Yeah. That's it."
He didn't buy it. Years in the field had honed his instincts; you were hiding something. The way your thighs pressed together, the subtle shift in your seat. "Stand up. Empty your pockets."
You complied, turning out lint, a phone, keys. Nothing. But his gut twisted. "Backpack too."
Zilch. Price leaned back against his desk, arms crossed over his broad chest. "You know I have to search you properly. School policy for contraband. Can't have you smuggling in here."
Your cheeks flushed, but you nodded. "Fine. Whatever."
He locked the door, standard procedure for privacy, and drew the blinds. The room dimmed, the air thickening slightly. "Arms out, feet apart. This is just routine, alright? Nothing personal."
You spread your arms, staring at the wall as he started the patdown. His hands were professional at first, large palms skating over your shoulders, down your arms, checking sleeves. Nothing. Sides, ribs, quick and efficient. He knelt for the legs, starting at your ankles, up your calves. Firm pressure, no lingering. But as he reached your thighs, you tensed, breath hitching just a fraction.
"Relax," he murmured, voice steady. Inner thighs now, hands sliding up, careful not to invade. Still nothing. He stood, checking your waistband, the small of your back. Clean.
Price stepped back, frowning. "Turn around."
You did, and he repeated the process from behind. Pockets again, bra line through your shirt. Nada. But that scent lingered, and your posture was off, like you were clenching something internal.
"Alright, lass. We're not done. Policy says if suspicion remains, we go deeper. Strip search if needed, but I'd rather not call in admin."
Your eyes widened. "What? No way."
"Then tell me where they are."
"I don't have any!"
He sighed, rubbing his neck. The room felt smaller, the air charged. He knew he should stop, but duty nagged. And something else, a flicker he pushed down. "Hands on the desk. Bend forward a bit."
You hesitated, but complied, palms flat on the wood, ass jutting slightly. Price swallowed, focusing. He patted again, more thoroughly, fingers pressing into seams. When he reached between your legs from behind, not touching but close, you gasped.
"There," he said softly. "You're hiding something."
"No, I'm not," you whispered, but your voice cracked.
His hand paused, inches from your core. Heat radiated through your jeans. "Lass... if it's where I think, you need to hand it over."
"I can't," you admitted, face burning.
Price's mind raced. Hidden internally. Christ. Protocol screamed to involve a female staffer, but the school was shortstaffed, and something in your eyes pleaded. Or challenged. He straightened, turning you to face him. "Explain."
You bit your lip. "Plastic bag. Inside. Didn't think you'd... check there."
His cock twitched unbidden, the thought filthy and wrong. But he was just doing his job. Right? "Can't let you walk out with it. Health risk, besides policy."
"What are you gonna do?" Your voice was small, but your gaze dropped to his belt, then back up.
Price's breath deepened. "Retrieve it. With your consent, of course."
Consent. The word hung heavy. You nodded slowly. "Okay. But... gently?"
"Aye." He guided you to sit on the desk edge, hands steady on your hips. "Unbutton your jeans."
Your fingers trembled, popping the button, zipper down. Price knelt again, hooking fingers in the waistband, tugging jeans and panties down in one slow pull. You lifted your hips, exposed now from the waist down, pussy bare and glistening slightly. Fuck, he thought, she's aroused.
"Spread your legs," he ordered, voice rougher now.
You did, feet on the chair arms, knees wide. Price's gaze locked on your cunt, lips parted, a faint bulge where the bag pressed. "Christ, lass. How'd you even..."
"Desperate measures," you murmured, breath quickening.
His gloved hands, no, he wasn't wearing gloves, but his callused fingers hovered. "This might feel... intimate."
"Do it."
He parted your folds gently at first, index finger tracing your slit. Wet. So fucking wet. You whimpered, and his control slipped. "Hold still."
Probing deeper, he felt the plastic edge, slick with your arousal. Hooked a finger, tugging lightly. It resisted, buried deep. "Push a bit, like bearing down."
You did, and he pulled, the bag emerging inch by inch, coated in your juices. Cigarettes inside, sealed tight. He set it aside, but didn't move his hand, thumb brushing your clit accidentally. Or not.
You moaned. "Mr. Price..."
"John," he corrected, voice gravel. "Call me John."
His finger dipped back in, testing. You arched, gripping his shoulders. "Fuck, John... don't stop."
The shift hit like a grenade. Job forgotten, lust roared. He stood, crowding you, free hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back. "You hid them there knowing I'd find 'em? Naughty girl."
"Yes," you gasped. "Wanted you to."
He growled, claiming your mouth in a brutal kiss, beard scraping your skin. Tongue invaded, tasting smoke and sin. His finger pumped deeper, adding a second, stretching you. "Tight little cunt. How long you been fantasizing about this?"
"Since the first session," you confessed, grinding down.
Price's cock strained against his trousers, thick and insistent. He freed it onehanded, stroking the length as he fingerfucked you harder. "Gonna ruin you, lass. Make you beg."
"Please..."
He withdrew his fingers, slick and shining, and lined up his cock, head nudging your entrance. "Last chance to stop."
"Don't you dare."
He thrust in, burying half in one go. You cried out, nails digging into his arms. Big, so fucking big, splitting you open. "Take it," he grunted, pulling back and slamming home.
The desk rattled with each pound, your legs wrapping his waist. Price gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, watching his cock disappear into your dripping heat. "Look at you, taking your mentor's cock like a good girl."
"Harder," you demanded, eyes wild.
He obliged, hips snapping, balls slapping your ass. Sweat beaded on his brow, shirt clinging. You clawed at his buttons, exposing his chest, fingers tangling in the hair there. He bent, sucking a nipple through your shirt, biting down.
Orgasm built fast, your walls clenching. "John... I'm gonna..."
"Come for me," he commanded, thumb circling your clit.
You shattered, back arching, soaking his cock. He fucked you through it, relentless, then pulled out, flipping you over the desk face down. Ass up, he spread your cheeks, admiring the view. "Such a pretty hole."
Reentering from behind, deeper angle, he rutted like an animal. Hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. "Mine now," he rasped.
"Yes, fuck, yours!"
He came with a roar, spilling deep, marking you. Pulled out slow, watching his cum leak out. Then, gentle again, he cleaned you with tissues from the drawer, helped you dress.
"Sit," he said softly, pulling you into his lap postcoitus. "We need to talk."
You nuzzled his neck. "About how we do this again?"
He chuckled, dark and satisfied. "Aye. But carefully. Can't lose this job."
"Or me," you teased.
"Never." His arms tightened, possessive.
The office door remained locked, the world outside oblivious. But inside, a new fire burned, one that wouldn't be extinguished easily.